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Chestnut Hill Wrong stop in an unfamiliar neighborhood. No trains back towards the city. “Guess we’ll have to walk,” says Jim. I squint into the dark and try to make out the path of the icy tracks that brought us here. Jim suggests we take the street and I put my faith in someone whose internal compass is permanently spinning out of control. We walk in a thin valley, large Victorians jutting out of the hills beside us, testaments to the Old Money that I suppose used to flow freely through the streets of suburban Boston. Jim pulls a bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket and we pass it back and forth feeling novel, as drunk kids trying to find their way are probably a rare commodity around here. We eventually stumble upon Woodman Lane, home to the home of my aunt. I tell Jim how she doesn’t get along with some of her neighbors because her great-great-great-great grandfather didn’t sign the Declaration of Independence and her husband’s got that tainted New Money that’s been going around. How she would have been Kathy Bates on the Titanic. Jim and I probably don’t help the situation as I suddenly get sick and throw up next to the sidewalk, on the same lawn that Jim is creating a yellow patch of snow in. Jim soothes away any remorse as he launches into rehearsed rhetoric about the symbolic nature of our actions against the faceless enemies of “elitism, wealth, and class division.” It’s easy for us to imagine the horror of the residents when they came out to their horse-drawn carriage the next morning in their tuxedos and Dickensian dresses, jaws dropping at the mess we’d made. At my aunt’s, we brush our teeth together in one of the five bathrooms, splattering toothpaste as we laugh at our deeds and the hypocrisy of the rich. In the hallway, we argue over which of the eight doors leads to the room where we sleep.
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